“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 half-penny 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 mesmerize?  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. Lecount 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 opposite seat, with her eyes closed and her veil down.

It was only when the carriage stopped at North Shingles, and when Captain Wragge was handing Magdalen out, that the housekeeper at last condescended to notice him.  As he smiled and took off his hat at the carriage door, the strong restraint she had laid on herself suddenly gave way, and she flashed one look at him which scorched up the captain’s politeness on the spot.  He turned at once, with a hasty acknowledgment of Noel Vanstone’s last sympathetic inquiries, and took Magdalen into the house.  “I told you she would show her claws,” he said.  “It is not my fault that she scratched you before I could stop her.  She hasn’t hurt you, has she?”