"That's no affair of yours, is it? Sign it, will you?"
Midge took the pen as if it weighed half a ton or so, set her head very much on one side, thrust her tongue a little out of one corner of her mouth, and with much labor and painstaking, affixed a blotted autograph—Priscilla Short.
"That will do," said Mr. Darcy; "we want another. Call in old Nettleby—he can write."
Midge, casting a parting look, of much complacence at her performance, departed on her errand, and old Nettleby coming in shortly after, affixed another blotted signature. Mr. Darcy dispatched him about his business, folded the document, put it in his pocket-book, and took his hat and cane to go. On the threshold he paused.
"This has been done under the influence of anger, Mrs. Leroy," he said; "and you will think better of it, and send me word to destroy it before long. I consider it most unjust—exceedingly unjust—altogether unjustifiable! Good afternoon, ma'am."
Cherrie waited in her hiding-place until she heard the hall door close after him, then stole noiselessly out, down-stairs, through the window, and gained her own home, unobserved.
What had she heard? Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her whole manner strangely excited. She could not keep still—she walked ceaselessly to and from the gate, straining her eyes in the direction of Speckport.
"Why don't he come! Why don't he come!" she kept repeating, hurriedly. "Oh, what will he say to this?"