"Upon my word, Miss Agnes, your are improving fast in impudence," said Mrs. Barnaby in her ear.... "I desire, if you please, that next time you will wait till I bid you sing."
Agnes did not reply. Nothing that it was in the power of her aunt to say could in that happy moment have caused her the slightest serious uneasiness. She was blessed beyond the reach of scolding, which was the more fortunate, as the widow had seldom been in a more irritable mood. Quarter after quarter had heavily struck upon her ear from the time-piece on the marble slab behind her; eleven o'clock (the hour at which her carriage was ordered) approached with fearful strides, and yet Lord Mucklebury came not.... Had her toilet upon this occasion been less fearfully expensive she could have endured it better; but that all the charms a milliner could give should have been freely ventured on, and HE not see it, was hard to bear.
It is true that, with the dogged firmness of a resolute purpose, Mrs. Barnaby scorned to shrink or tremble as she played her desperate game; nevertheless she knew that selling out stock three times within a fortnight was a strong measure; and anything that seemed to check her approach to the goal she felt so sure of reaching, did produce a disagreeable sort of spasm about her heart. There was no help for it, however; go she must, as nearly all the rest of the company had gone before her, with nothing to console her but an indifferently civil nod from Lady Elizabeth, and the surprise, less agreeable perhaps than startling, of seeing her dependant niece parted with in a manner that shewed she was considered of infinitely greater importance than herself, notwithstanding her carriage, her tall footman, and her magnificent attire.
Miss Morrison was accommodated with a seat in the carriage she had so actively exerted herself to procure, and the first words spoken after they drove off were hers.
"Nest paw que jay raisong?... Did I not say so, Mrs. Barnaby?... Did I not tell you, my dear madam, that you need do nothing but make this young lady sing in order to become the fashion at Cheltenham?... You have no idea what a number of visits you will have to-morrow.... Noo verong."
"Really, Miss Morrison," replied the widow tartly, "I am surprised to hear a person of your good sense speak so foolishly.... How can you suppose that a person in my station of life could desire the visits of such a set of people as we met to-night?... And as to making this poor penniless girl talked of as a singer, I should be ashamed to think of such a thing. Remember, miss, if you please, that from this time forward I never will permit you to sing again, ... unless, indeed, you mean to get your bread by it, ... and I'm sure I won't undertake to say but what you may want it.... I can answer for nobody but myself; and I don't think it probable that others may be inclined to shew the same devoted generosity that I have done to a girl that never shewed the slightest affection for me in return."
And so she ran on till she fell asleep ... but her words fell like rain on a water-proof umbrella; they made a noise, but they could not reach the head which they seemed destined to deluge. Agnes was wrapped in armour of proof, and nothing could do her harm.
Happily for her, one of the facetious Lord Mucklebury's modes of extracting amusement from the widow was by writing her notes, which elicited answers that often threw him into a perfect ecstasy, and which he carefully preserved in an envelope endorsed "Barnaby Papers," lodging them in a corner of his writing-desk, from whence they were not unfrequently drawn for the delectation of his particular friends. One of these notes, intended to produce an answer that should add a gem to his collection, was delivered to Mrs. Barnaby as she passed from the breakfast-table of the boarding-house to her own sitting-room. The emotions produced by these notes were always very powerful, and on the present occasion more so than ordinary, for there were apologies for not appearing last night, and hopes for an interview that morning, which were to be answered instantly, for the servant waited.
Mrs. Barnaby, panting with haste and gladness, seated herself at her table, opened her writing-desk, seized a pen, and was in the very act of venturing the words "My dear Lord," when Agnes drew near, and said, "May I go out, aunt, to call on Lady Elizabeth?"
"Gracious Heaven!... what a moment to torment me! Go!... go where you will ... plague of my life as you are! Get along at once, can't you?"