“I may have erred,” said Darcy.  “I may have thought too meanly of myself, or nourished a misplaced pride, but I never had a disparaging thought of you.  It seemed that I was right—­that I was fulfilling a severe—­oh, how severe a duty!  Even now I know not that I was wrong—­I know only that I am miserable.  But,” added he in a calmer voice, “I, at all events, am the only sufferer.  You, at least, are happy.”

“Not, I think, if marriage is to make me so.  I am not married, Reginald,” she said, amidst a confusion of smiles and blushes.  “Captain Garland was married this morning to Miss Julia Danvers, to whom he has been long engaged, but a silly selfish stepmother”——­

“Not married!” cried Darcy, interrupting all further explanation.—­“Not married!  Then you are free—­then you are”——­But the old train of thought rushed back upon his mind—­the old objections were as strong as ever—­Miss Sherwood was still the daughter of his guardian, and the heiress of Lipscombe Park.  Instead of completing the sentence, he paused, and muttered something about “her father.”

Emily saw the cloud that had come over him.  Dropping playfully, and most gracefully, upon one knee, she took his hand, and looking up archly in his face, said, “You love me, coz—­you have said it.  Coz, will you marry me?—­for I love you.”

“Generous, generous girl!” and he clasped her to his bosom.

“Let us go in,” said Emily, in a quite altered and tremulous voice, “let us join them in the other room.”  And as she put her arm in his, the little pressure said distinctly and triumphantly—­“He is mine!—­he is mine!”

* * * * *

We must take a parting glance into old Mr Sherwood’s room.  He is seated in his gouty chair; his daughter stands by his side.  Apparently Emily’s reasonings have almost prevailed; she has almost persuaded the old gentleman that Darcy is the very son-in-law whom, above all others, he ought to desire.  For how could Emily leave her dear father, and how could he domicile himself with any other husband she could choose, half so well as with his own ward, and his old favourite, Reginald?

“But Sir Frederic Beaumantle,” the old gentleman replied, “what is to be said to him? and what a fine property he has!”

As he was speaking, the door opened, and the party from the breakfast table, consisting of Captain Garland, and his bride, and Reginald, entered the room.

“Oh, as for Sir Frederic Beaumantle,” said she who was formerly Miss Danvers, and now Mrs Garland, “I claim him as mine.”  And forthwith she displayed the famous declaration of the baronet—­addressed to herself!

Their mirth had scarcely subsided, when the writer of the letter himself made his appearance.  He had called early, for he had concluded, after much deliberation, that it was not consistent with the ardour and impetuosity of love, to wait till the formal hour of visiting, in order to receive the answer of Miss Danvers.