Poor Darcy! he would sit, or walk, by her side, talking of this or that, no matter what, always happy in her presence, passing the most delicious hours, but not venturing to betray, by word or look, how very content he was.  For these hours of stolen happiness he knew how severe a penalty he must pay:  he knew and braved it.  And in our poor judgment he was right.  Let the secret, stealthy, unrequited lover enjoy to the full the presence, the smiles, the bland and cheerful society of her whom his heart is silently worshipping.  Even this shall in future hours be a sweet remembrance.  By and by, it is true, there will come a season of poignant affliction.  But better all this than one uniform, perpetual torpor.  He will have felt that mortal man may breathe the air of happiness; he will have learned something of the human heart that lies within him.

But all this love—­was it seen—­was it returned—­by her who had inspired it?  Both, both.  He thought, wise youth! that while he was swallowing draught after draught of this delicious poison, no one perceived the deep intoxication he was revelling in.  Just as wisely some veritable toper, by putting on a grave and demure countenance, cheats himself into the belief that he conceals from every eye that delectable and irresistible confusion in which his brain is swimming.  His love was seen.  How could it be otherwise?  That instantaneous, that complete delight which he felt when she joined him in his rambles, or came to sit with him in the library, could not be disguised nor mistaken.  He was a scholar, a reader and lover of books, but let the book be what it might which he held in his hand, it was abandoned, closed, pitched aside, the moment she entered.  There was no stolen glance at the page left still open; nor was the place kept marked by the tenacious finger and thumb.  If her voice were heard on the terrace, or in the garden—­if her laugh—­so light, merry, and musical, reached his ear—­there was no question or debate whether he should go or stay, but down the stairs, or through the avenues of the garden—­he sprung—­he ran;—­only a little before he came in sight he would assume something of the gravity becoming in a senior wrangler, or try to look as if he came there by chance.  His love was seen, and not with indifference.  But what could the damsel do?  How presume to know of an attachment until in due form certified thereof?  If a youth will adhere to an obstinate silence, what, we repeat, can a damsel do but leave him to his fate, and listen to some other, who, if he loves less, at least knows how to avow his love?

CHAPTER II.

We left the two friends proceeding towards the mansion; we enter before them, and introduce our readers into the drawing-room.  Here, in a spacious and shaded apartment, made cool, as well by the massive walls of the noble edifice as by the open and protected windows, whose broad balcony was blooming with the most beautiful and fragrant of plants, sat Emily Sherwood.  She was not, however, alone.  At the same round table, which was covered with vases of flowers, and with books as gay as flowers, was seated another young lady, Miss Julia Danvers, a friend who had arrived in the course of the morning on a visit to Lipscombe Park.  The young ladies seemed to have been in deep consultation.