From this posture he was at length aroused by a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and a voice calling him by his name.  He raised his head:  it was Emily Sherwood, enquiring of him, quite calmly, why he was not at the breakfast-table.  There she stood, radiant with beauty, and in all her bridal attire, except that she had thrown of her bonnet, and her beautiful hair was allowed to be free and unconfined.  Her hand was still upon his shoulder.

“You are married, Emily,” he said, as well as that horrible stifling sensation in the breast would let him speak; “you are married, and I must be for evermore a banished man.  I leave you, Emily, and this roof, for ever.  I pronounce my own sentence of exile, for I love you, Emily!—­and ever shall—­passionately—­tenderly—­love you.  Surely I may say this now—­now that it is a mere cry of anguish, and a misery exclusively my own.  Never, never—­I feel that this is no idle raving—­shall I love another—­never will this affection leave me—­I shall never have a home—­never care for another—­or myself—­I am alone—­a wanderer—­miserable.  Farewell!  I go—­I know not exactly where—­but I leave this place.”

He was preparing to quit the room, when Emily, placing herself before him, prevented him.  “And why,” said she, “if you honoured me with this affection, why was I not to know of it till now?”

“Can the heiress of Lipscombe Park ask that question?”

“Ungenerous! unjust!” said Emily.  “Tell me, if one who can himself feel and act nobly, denies to another the capability of a like disinterested conduct—­denies it rashly, pertinaciously, without cause given for such a judgment—­is he not ungenerous and unjust?”

“To whom have I acted thus?  To whom have I been ungenerous or unjust?”

“To me, Reginald—­to me!  I am wealthy, and for this reason alone you have denied to me, it seems, the possession of every worthy sentiment.  She has gold, you have said, let her gold content her, and you withheld your love.  She will make much boast, and create a burdensome obligation, if she bestows her superfluous wealth upon another:  you resolved not to give her the opportunity, and you withheld your love.  She has gold—­she has no heart—­no old affections that have grown from childhood—­no estimate of character:  she has wealth—­let her gratify its vanity and its caprice; and so you withheld your love.  Yes, she has gold—­let her have more of it—­let her wed with gold—­with any gilded fool—­she has no need of love!  This is what you have thought, what your conduct has implied, and it was ungenerous and unjust.”

“No, by heaven!  I never thought unworthily of you,” exclaimed Darcy.

“Had you been the wealthy cousin, Reginald, of wealth so ample, that an addition to it could scarcely bring an additional pleasure, would you have left your old friend Emily to look out for some opulent alliance?”

“Oh, no! no!”

“Then, why should I?”