Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s face had passed through every shade of expression—doubt, shame, and indignation; but now it assumed an air of hope.
“Margaret has always spoken so well of him,” she said, half to herself. “He was always very kind to her, and yet she was only the poor daughter of a humble acquaintance.”
“Perhaps he deviated into kindness for once,” said Barton; “but as to his general character, it is certain that it was on a par with the trap he laid for you. I wish I knew where to find him. You must never let him get the poor girl back into his hands.”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Si John Deloraine, with conviction in her voice; “and now I must go back to her, and see whether she wants anything. Do you think I may soon move her to my own house, in Cheyne Walk? It is not far, and she will be so much more comfortable there.”
“The best thing you can do,” said Barton; “and be sure you send for me if you want me, or if you ever hear anything more of Mr. Cranley. I am quite ready to meet him anywhere.”
“You will call to-morrow?”
“Certainly, about this time,” said Barton; and he kept his promise assiduously, calling often.
A fortnight went by, and Margaret, almost restored to health, and in a black tea-gown, the property of Mrs. St. John Deloraine, was lying indolently on a sofa in the house in Cheyne Walk. She was watching the struggle between the waning daylight and the fire, when the door opened, and the servant announced “Dr. Barton.”
Margaret held forth a rather languid hand.
“I’m so sorry Mrs. St. John Deloraine is out,” she said. “She is at a soap-bubble party. I wish I could go. It is so long since I saw any children, or had any fun.”