mentioning Vauxhall Walk as one of them, saved
Magdalen from the sudden question relating to
that very locality, with which Mrs. Lecount had
proposed startling her to begin with. From his
residences, he passed smoothly to himself; and
poured his whole family history (in the character
of Mr. Bygrave) into the housekeeper's ears—not
forgetting his brother's grave in Honduras, with
the monument by the self-taught negro artist;
and his brother's hugely corpulent widow, on the
ground floor of the boarding-house at Cheltenham.
As a means of giving Magdalen time to
compose herself, this outburst of autobiographical
information attained its object, but it answered no
other purpose. Mrs. Lecount listened, without
being imposed on by a single word the captain
said to her. He merely confirmed her conviction
of the hopelessness of taking Noel Vanstone into
her confidence, before she had facts to help her
against Captain Wragge's otherwise unassailable
position in the identity which he had assumed.
She quietly waited until he had done, and then
returned to the charge.

"It is a coincidence that your uncle should
once have resided in Vauxhall Walk," she said,
addressing herself to Magdalen. "My master
has a house in the same place; and we lived
there before we came to Aldborough. May I
inquire, Miss Bygrave, whether you know
anything of a lady named Miss Garth?"

This time, she put the question before the
captain could interfere. Magdalen ought to have
been prepared for it by what had already passed
in her presence—but her nerves had been shaken
by the earlier events of the day; and she could
only answer the question in the negative, after
an instant's preliminary pause to control herself.
Her hesitation was of too momentary a nature
to attract the attention of any unsuspicious
person. But it lasted long enough to confirm
Mrs. Lecount's private convictions, and to
encourage her to advance a little further.

"I only asked," she continued, steadily fixing
her eyes on Magdalen, steadily disregarding the
efforts which Captain Wragge made to join
in the conversation, "because Miss Garth is a
stranger to me; and I am curious to find out
what I can about her. The day before we left
town, Miss Bygrave, a person who presented
herself under the name I have mentioned, paid
us a visit under very extraordinary
circumstances."

With a smooth, ingratiating manner; with a
refinement of contempt that was little less than
devilish in its ingenious assumption of the
language of pity, she now boldly described
Magdalen's appearance in disguise, in Magdalen's
own presence. She slightingly referred to the
master and mistress of Combe-Raven, as persons
who had always annoyed the elder and more
respectable branch of the family; she mourned
over the children as following their parents'
example, and attempting to take a mercenary
advantage of Mr. Noel Vanstone, under the
protection of a respectable person's character and a
respectable person's name. Cleverly including
her master in the conversation, so as to prevent
the captain from effecting a diversion in that
quarter; sparing no petty aggravation; striking
at every tender place which the tongue of a
spiteful woman can wound—she would, beyond
all doubt, have carried her point, and tortured
Magdalen into openly betraying herself, if Captain
Wragge had not checked her in full career, by a
loud exclamation of alarm, and a sudden clutch
at Magdalen's wrist.

"Ten thousand pardons, my dear madam!"
cried the captain. "I see in my niece's face, I
feel in my niece's pulse, that one of her violent
neuralgic attacks has come on again. My dear
girl, why hesitate among friends to confess that
you are in pain? What mistimed politeness !
Her face shows she is suffering—doesn't it, Mrs.
Lecount? Darting pains, Mr. Vanstone, darting
pains on the left side of the head. Pull down
your veil, my dear, and lean on me. Our friends
will excuse you; our excellent friends will
excuse you, for the rest of the day."

Before Mrs. Lecount could throw an instant's
doubt on the genuineness of the neuralgic attack,
her master's fidgety sympathy declared itself,
exactly as the captain had anticipated, in the most
active manifestations. He stopped the carriage,
and insisted on an immediate change in the
arrangement of the places—the comfortable back
seat for Miss Bygrave and her uncle; the front
seat for Lecount and himself. Had Lecount got
her smelling-bottle? Excellent creature! let
her give it directly to Miss Bygrave, and let the
coachman drive carefully. If the coachman shook
Miss Bygrave he should not have a halfpenny
for himself. Mesmerism was frequently useful
in these cases. Mr. Noel Vanstone's father had
been the most powerful mesmerist in Europe;
and Mr. Noel Vanstone was his father's son.
Might he mesmerise? Might he order that
infernal coachman to draw up in a shady place
adapted for the purpose? Would medical help
be preferred? Could medical help be found any
nearer than Aldborough? That ass of a coachman
didn't know. Stop every respectable man
who passed in a gig, and ask him if he was a
doctor! So Mr. Noel Vanstone ran on —with
brief intervals for breathing-time — in a
continually-ascending scale of sympathy and self-
importance, throughout the drive home.

Mrs. Lecouut accepted her defeat, without
uttering a word. From the moment when
Captain Wragge interrupted her, her thin lips closed,
and opened no more for the remainder of the
journey. The warmest expressions of her master's
anxiety for the suffering young lady, provoked from
her no outward manifestations of anger. She took
as little notice of him as possible. She paid no
attention whatever to the captain, whose
exasperating consideration for his vanquished enemy,
made him more polite to her than ever. The
nearer and the nearer they got to Aldborough,
the more and more fixedly Mrs. Lecount's hard
black eyes looked at Magdalen reclining on the