“I know him.”
“Yes, I have often heard him speak of you,” said Barton. “Well, he had a protégée—a kind of ward, to tell a long story in few words—a girl whom he had educated, and whom he was under some kind of promise to her father to marry. The father died suddenly; the girl disappeared mysteriously from school at the same moment; and Maitland, after many efforts, has never been able to find out anything about her. Now, this girl’s name, this girl in whom my friend was interested, was Margaret Shields. That is the very name by which your friend, Miss Harman, called Margaret. So, you see, even if I am right, and if she does care for me, what a dreadful position I am in! I want to marry the girl to whom my friend is, more or less, engaged! My friend, after doing his best to find his ward, and after really suffering a great deal of anxiety and annoyance, is living abroad. What am I to say to him?”
“Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. St John Deloraine, “perhaps you alarm yourself too much. I think”—here she dropped her voice a little—“I think—I don’t think Mr. Maitland’s heart is very deeply concerned about Miss Shields. I may be wrong, but I know him pretty well”—she gave a little nervous laugh—“and I don’t think he’s in love with Margaret.”
By the time she reached the end of this interrupted and tentative discourse Mrs. St. John Deloraine was blushing like a rose in June.
Barton felt an enormous weight lifted from his heart, and a flood of welcome light poured into his mind. The two philanthropists were in love with each other!
“He’s an awfully good fellow, Maitland,” he replied. “But you are right; I’m sure you are right. You must know. He is not in love with Margaret.”
Mrs. St. John Deloraine seemed not displeased at the tribute to Maitland’s unobtrusive virtues, and replied:
“But he will be very glad to hear that she is found at last, and quite safe; and I’ll write to him myself, this very evening. I heard from him—about a charity, you know—a few days ago, and I have his address.”
By this time they had reached the carriage. Janey, with many embraces, tore herself from Margaret, and went off with her attendant; while Mrs. St John Deloraine, with a beaming face, gave the coachman the order “Home.”
“We shall see you to-morrow at luncheon,” she cried to Barton; and no offer of hospitality had ever been more welcome.