In the course of the evening he said,
“I have a small package for you, Miss Pearsall, which I will give you when you leave.”
“A package for me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “What can it be! Oh, give it to me now.”
As Mrs. Pearsall, the “prim, particular old lady,” was not near, he handed Ellen the package, who instantly broke the seal of the envelope, from which fell two or three notes, while the young lady exclaimed,
“Why this is Emma’s ring. What were you thinking of, Mr. Dashwood?” she added, laughing. “You must be an absent gentleman, to be sure, to mistake me for Emma. Is not that a good joke?” and she laughed heartily, as he stooped to pick up the notes, which to his amazement he saw were directed, in Emma’s handwriting, to “Charles Cooper, Esq.”
“That Miss Percival’s ring?” he said, bewildered, and not knowing what to think.
“Yes, certainly!” she replied. “See, there is her name engraved inside”—and so it was. “Is not that amusing, mamma?” she continued, turning to her mother, and explaining what she seemed to think an excellent joke. Dashwood saw the truth at once in her tones and whole manner.
“What is that,” said Emma, crossing the room to join them, “that seems to be amusing you all so?”
“Only, my dear,” said Ellen, laughing, “that Mr. Dashwood has mistaken me for you. Very complimentary to me, certainly; though I don’t know what you’ll say to such compliments.”
“This package,” said Mr. Dashwood, gravely, without raising his eyes to Emma’s face, “is, it seems, addressed to you. Miss Pearsall broke the seal under a mistake. But there is no mistake now, I believe,” he added, with an emphasis that sent Emma’s blood tingling to the tips of her fingers. He handed her the package, slightly bowed and passed on.