“Pardon me,” replied the incorrigible Wragge.  “You want a little instruction; and I am the man to give it you.”

With that answer, he placed a chair for her, and proceeded to explain himself.

She sat down in silence.  A sullen indifference began to show itself in her manner; her cheeks turned pale again; and her eyes looked wearily vacant at the wall before her.  Captain Wragge noticed these signs of heart-sickness and discontent with herself, after the effort she had made, and saw the importance of rousing her by speaking, for once, plainly and directly to the point.  She had set a new value on herself in his mercenary eyes.  She had suggested to him a speculation in her youth, her beauty, and her marked ability for the stage, which had never entered his mind until he saw her act.  The old militia-man was quick at his shifts.  He and his plans had both turned right about together when Magdalen sat down to hear what he had to say.

“Mr. Huxtable’s opinion is my opinion,” he began.  “You are a born actress.  But you must be trained before you can do anything on the stage.  I am disengaged—­I am competent—­I have trained others—­I can train you.  Don’t trust my word:  trust my eye to my own interests.  I’ll make it my interest to take pains with you, and to be quick about it.  You shall pay me for my instructions from your profits on the stage.  Half your salary for the first year; a third of your salary for the second year; and half the sum you clear by your first benefit in a London theater.  What do you say to that?  Have I made it my interest to push you, or have I not?”

So far as appearances went, and so far as the stage went, it was plain that he had linked his interests and Magdalen’s together.  She briefly told him so, and waited to hear more.

“A month or six weeks’ study,” continued the captain, “will give me a reasonable idea of what you can do best.  All ability runs in grooves; and your groove remains to be found.  We can’t find it here—­for we can’t keep you a close prisoner for weeks together in Rosemary Lane.  A quiet country place, secure from all interference and interruption, is the place we want for a month certain.  Trust my knowledge of Yorkshire, and consider the place found.  I see no difficulties anywhere, except the difficulty of beating our retreat to-morrow.”

“I thought your arrangements were made last night?” said Magdalen.

“Quite right,” rejoined the captain.  “They were made last night; and here they are.  We can’t leave by railway, because the lawyer’s clerk is sure to be on the lookout for you at the York terminus.  Very good; we take to the road instead, and leave in our own carriage.  Where the deuce do we get it?  We get it from the landlady’s brother, who has a horse and chaise which he lets out for hire.  That chaise comes to the end of Rosemary Lane at an early hour to-morrow morning.  I take my wife and my niece out to show them the beauties