“Daisy Shields!” cried a clear voice. “Daisy, you’re found at last, and I’ve found you! How glad Miss Marlett will be!”
But by this time the astonished Barton beheld Margaret in the impassioned embrace of a very pretty and highly-excited young lady; while Mrs. St. John Deloraine, who was with her, gazed with amazement in her eyes.
“Oh, my dear!” Miss Harman (for it was that enthusiast) hurried on, in a pleasant flow of talk, like a brook, with pleasant interruptions. “Oh, my dear! I was walking in the park with my maid, and I met Mrs. St. John Deloraine, and she said she had lost her friends, and I came to help her to look for them; and I’ve found you! It’s like Stanley finding Livingstone. ‘How I Found Daisy.’ I’ll write a book about it. And where have you been hiding yourself? None of the girls ever knew anything was the matter—only Miss Mariett and me! And I’ve left for good; and she and I are quite friends, and I’m to be presented next Drawing Room.”
While this address (which, at least, proved that Margaret had acquaintances in the highest circles) was being poured forth, Mrs. St. John Deloraine and Barton were observing all with unfeigned astonishment and concern.
They both perceived that the mystery of Margaret’s past was about to be dispelled, or rather, for Barton, it already was dispelled. The names of Shields and Miss Marlett had told him all that he needed to know. But he would rather have heard the whole story from his lady’s lips; and Mrs. St. John Deloraine was mentally accusing Janey Harman of having interrupted a “proposal,” and spoiled a darling scheme.
It was therefore with a certain most unfamiliar sharpness that Mrs. St John Deloraine, observing that the day was clouded over, requested Margaret to return to the carriage.
“And as Miss Harman seems to have a great deal to say to you, Margaret,” added the philanthropic lady, “you two had better walk on as fast as you can; for you must be very careful not to catch cold! I see Miss Harman’s maid waiting for her in the distance there. And you and I, Mr. Barton, if you will give me your arm, will follow slower; I’m not a good walker.”
“Now,” said Barton’s companion eagerly, when Margaret and Janey, about three yards in advance, might be conventionally regarded as beyond earshot—“Now, Mr. Barton, am I to congratulate you?”
Barton gave a little shamefaced laugh, uneasily.
“I don’t know—I hope so—I’m not sure.”