Beginning, Section II

Part XI--A Wedding March

It was but a few minutes shy of half past ten o'clock on a brilliant morning in late August when Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy's barouche drew up before the Church of St. Clement Danes in the Strand. Without waiting for assistance, the vehicle's sole occupant promptly opened the door and stepped down into the street. Moving the short distance to the front of the carriage, he spoke to his coachman in a calm, quiet voice.

"I shan't require you again for perhaps an hour or thereabouts, O'Malley. Be so good as to remain here."

"Yessir," replied the driver respectfully, touching his hat. He had been in Mr. Darcy's employ for better than a year now, but had never seen the master in this mood before. "He's as stony-faced as one o' them old Roman statues this mornin'. Someone's for it, that's certain!"

Darcy turned away from O'Malley to face the church, and found himself impressed yet again by the beauty and elegance of Sir Christopher Wren's design. Of all the churches in London, he believed St. Clement's had always been his favourite. To be sure, it was not the most fashionable or the most imposing; nevertheless, the sight of this church had never failed to fill him with pleasure and lift his spirit. Viewing it now, he found that he could not repress gloomier thoughts.

How ironic that Wickham had elected to conceal himself and Lydia Bennet in the parish of St. Clement Danes, and by so doing, determined that this church would be the scene of their wedding! Having failed to obtain lodgings with Mrs. Younge in Edward Street, the fugitive couple had sought refuge in the district of London most familiar to George Wickham—the area surrounding the Temple, where he had resided during his abortive "legal career". In discussing the arrangements, Darcy and Edward Gardiner had agreed at once that any thought of performing the ceremony in Longbourn parish church was out of the question. Thus, the two gentlemen were left with no option; St. Clement Danes it would have to be. Darcy could not help feeling a poignant sadness. Will I ever see it after today without painful memories?

Removing his hat and gloves, Darcy went into the cool interior of the church; once inside, he made his way to a pew near the front and quietly seated himself. After the bright sunshine of the street, it required a few moments to adjust his vision to his new surroundings. Gazing slowly around him, he observed that, for the moment, he was alone.

Darcy's reflections turned to the ceremony that was about to take place, and the strain of the preceding weeks. His negotiations with Wickham had proven a severe trial of his patience. It had required several interviews before everything had been settled--although perhaps not to that gentleman's complete satisfaction. From the outset, it had been apparent that Wickham viewed Lydia's determination to proceed with the marriage as an opportunity to extort concessions from the man who had stepped forward as her protector.

He had begun by demanding that Darcy reward him for his agreeing to Lydia's wishes with the conveyance of what he chose to term "a moderate estate"--to be carved out from the latter gentleman's lands in Derbyshire. Darcy smiled grimly as he recalled the accomodating tone Wickham's voice had assumed when he had hastened to assure him that the property in question "need not be worth more than two thousand-a-year." Darcy had not anticipated this particular ultimatum, an oversight which he could not help thinking had been foolish of him. He was not surprised to discover that the thought of living the rest of his days with Mr. and Mrs. Wickham as near neighbors--all the while knowing their estate to consist of land which had once been a part of Pemberley—filled him with dismay and revulsion.

Darcy had not responded to this proposal with the contempt it merited, however. Instead of an absolute negative, he had countered with an offer intended to deflect Wickham's avarice into other channels. Nevertheless, the subject of landed property had been constantly renewed in the course of the discussion; Mr. Wickham was nothing if not persistent. Yet Darcy had had the advantage of the certain knowledge that Wickham's position was hardly unassailable, and he had noted with satisfaction that the size of Mr. Wickham's projected estate diminished with each subsequent mention of it until, at last, it vanished altogether.

Having thus disposed of George Wickham's ambition of establishing himself as a member of the landed gentry, Darcy had found it far simpler to persuade him to talk of actual possibilities. Both the Law and the Church had been canvassed, but both had been promptly discarded. Wickham had declared the first-named profession "unsuitable" to his talents, and, just as decidedly, Darcy had expressed his opinion that any scheme which resulted in George Wickham taking holy orders would be similarly unsatisfactory--although he refrained from enumerating still other, more cogent, justifications for dismissing this alternative. They had agreed that the Navy was quite impossible by reason of Mr. Wickham's age, if for no other reason. Only the Army, therefore, remained to be discussed.

Darcy soon learnt that Wickham had grown disenchanted with the militia: his fellow officers in the Blankshire, he felt, had not exhibited the proper "dash" or "presence". While good enough fellows, they were still "just lads". On the other hand, a commission in the regulars--a captaincy, perhaps--would be "just the thing." Eventually, an ensigncy in a regiment of the line had been determined upon, although Darcy had reserved to himself the choice of the corps which would be honoured with Ensign Wickham's services.

The settlement itself had proven a relatively straightforward matter. Wickham, of course, had coveted a far larger sum than Darcy was willing to consider, but a number of subtle reminders from the latter concerning the pressing nature of Wickham's financial situation, together with a pledge to discharge his debts, had succeeded in finally wearing down his resistance….

At this point, Mr. Darcy's reverie was interrupted by sounds coming from the rear of the building which seemed to emanate from the street. Turning towards the source of this disturbance, he observed George Wickham passing through the outer door and into the church. Mr. Wickham closed the door behind him, restoring silence to the interior of the church, and then walked briskly up the aisle. As he approached Darcy, the two men nodded to each other, but neither spoke. Wickham stepped into the pew, and seated himself immediately beside Darcy.

The Rector of St. Clement's, The Rev. Dr. Charles Beddowes, joined them a few minutes later, and soon engaged the bridegroom in quiet conversation. George Wickham, as always, contrived to render his words and manner agreeable to his audience, and Darcy thought he detected that Dr. Beddowes was much impressed with Mr. Wickham's candour and gravity on what the elderly clergyman repeatedly referred to as "this solemn and joyous occasion."

As Darcy listened in silence, his face an impenetrable mask, a great deal was said concerning the importance of allying affection with prudence and discretion when contemplating entering upon the marriage state. The Reverend Doctor expressed his view that the choice of a marriage partner was among the most momentous and fateful decisions in life, and therefore, should be one attended by very serious and careful reflection. Mr. Wickham's ready assent to this opinion appeared to gratify at least one of his listeners, and Dr. Beddowes' countenance assumed a glow of warm approval.

Once again the sound of the door being opened reached them, causing the three men to look up and turn towards the rear of the church. Lydia Bennet preceded her aunt and uncle up the aisle towards them; she was dressed in a simple yet becoming gown, and was holding a small bouquet of summer flowers before her. Her face was radiant, her eyes shone, and she smiled at everyone and everything in turn. Darcy and Wickham rose to their feet; Mr. Beddowes bestowed a gentle smile upon the bride, and asked her softly if she was ready to proceed with the ceremony.

"Oh, yes, please! Everything looks so delightful! I am quite ready, I assure you."

Wickham stepped forward to stand by her side; opening his Liturgy to the proper page, Dr. Beddowes moved to stand before the bride and groom, and began the service…

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate…"

Thus, thought Darcy, is the sole ambition of Lydia Bennet's young life realised. How soon will she come to repent of her eagerness and teach herself to question the value of what she has achieved today? Will she ever recognise that she has bartered any hope of obtaining the substance of what she pursued in exchange for its appearance? Where true love and esteem existed, what a blessing to have God's grace unite two souls! But in such a case as this…what misery I foresee!

Still, they are well-matched, man and wife: both of them extravagant, and both selfish. She, calculating--but foolish, and incapable of perceiving the price she pays for her schemes; he, cunning--yet blind to the injury he does himself through the villainy of his actions and the baseness of his objects. Resembling each other in their recklessness, their caprice, and their shallowness. A couple bent on giving the appearance of virtue and respectability in spite of their complete ignorance and indifference concerning the effort necessary to attain either. Both of them sensitive upon points of rank and dignity, while neither their characters nor their accomplishments warranted their pretensions…

"George, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife…"

Darcy could not avoid painful reflections on the significance of this marriage for himself. In only a few moments more, George Wickham was to be finally and irrevocably connected to the one family in England--apart from Darcy's own--where his relationship would cause Darcy the most distress. Only the success of Wickham's scheme to elope with Georgiana last summer would have grieved him more than what was about to occur. Was it just a year ago? And what have I gained by all my effort and care of the past month? From this day forward, George Wickham will serve as a constant reminder to those at Longbourn of the wound my pride has inflicted on them! But I was powerless to prevent it; I could do no more!

"Lydia, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…"

But wait! Was that the truth? I might have bribed Wickham as I did last summer. He was willing to abandon Miss Bennet, but I insisted that he wait upon her decision. Yet his silence after removing from her was as vital an object as his removal, and had I agreed to his suggestion, I would have lost any power of insuring this. I could not have relied upon Wickham's continued silence regarding Miss Bennet—I had not the right. Georgiana is my sister, and I am her guardian; I might risk that Wickham would hold his tongue where she was concerned--it was my own family's respectability at stake. I enjoyed no such privilege while I sought to protect Miss Bennet's interest.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Mr. Gardiner stepped forward and answered Dr. Beddowes, prompting Darcy to consider what he and Mrs. Gardiner must be enduring as they witnessed this ceremony. Darcy had experienced a growing fondness for the Gardiners over the past several weeks; from necessity, he and Edward Gardiner had been thrown together a great deal whilst attempting to successfully negotiate the terms of the marriage settlement and arrange the wedding itself.

Darcy had found this opportunity for close cooperation with Elizabeth's uncle most rewarding, and his respect for the older man had steadily increased. Indeed, from the moment of their first meeting at Pemberley, Darcy's opinion of Mr. Gardiner had never ceased to improve. The energy, good humour, common sense and intelligence which Mr. Gardiner never failed to display--when allied to his evident concern for his niece--had succeeded in demonstrating to Darcy the error of his former haughty disdain for those whom circumstances had assigned to a lower rank in society than his own. In short, he had come to feel the greatest esteem for Mr. Gardiner, and it pleased him to think that the other man might return his regard.

Mrs. Gardiner, too, had earned Darcy's respect and esteem. Calling upon them both in Gracechurch Street, he had observed the harmony and comfort which she strove to maintain in their home. Her constant attention and activity was directed to secure the welfare of her family, and Darcy was convinced that neither her husband nor her children could have wished for a kinder or more untiring guardian. In conversing with her, he had formed the opinion that her intelligence had a greater natural penetration than her husband's, but he observed that though Mr. Gardiner constantly sought her advice on various weighty matters, she offered it in a manner which never betrayed a sense of her own superiority. They were obviously devoted to one another, and to their children; each partner's gifts ideally complemented the other's, and Darcy had come away from his visits with the feeling that the Gardiners had attained a degree of happiness in their marriage which any couple might well envy.

Thus, Darcy could only sympathise with the Gardiners' obvious sadness as they watched the final resolution of this deplorable affair. Having themselves lived together companionably for so many years, Darcy imagined that the thoughts of both husband and wife could not fail to dwell on their own mode of life--and to contrast their happiness with their expectations for the pair who stood before them. Over the past month, Darcy had felt bound to share with them his information regarding Wickham's history. Knowing what they now did, they could have no illusions regarding the hopes their niece might entertain for the future.

"Forasmuch as George and Lydia have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

It was done. As Dr. Beddowes began the reading of the psalm, Darcy was no longer able to suppress his remembrance of Elizabeth, and the torment of his remorse and despair.

And is this--this hideous travesty of a marriage—is this to be the last service I shall perform for her? What if I should never see her again? Am I fated never to look into her beautiful eyes once more; never to hear her voice; never to see her glorious smile? And yet, what I am feeling is nothing compared with the misery to come! What will I suffer when I hear that she has given her love to another? Oh, dear God, I could not bear it!

Dear Lord, if I must suffer this emptiness and longing, I pray for the strength of Your healing grace. I acknowledge the justice of my punishment, but I entreat You to show me mercy! Teach me to live hereafter in patient and humble submission to Your will.

I beg You to keep her safe and well. I do not think I could endure it if I knew that she was in any pain! Give her every happiness; reward her with Your blessing in all that she does; support her in every trial of her life; and protect those dear to her.

Lord, grant her Your favour always…

The service ended with the completion of the prescribed prayers. Extending his congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, Dr. Beddowes showed them to the vestry, where the Gardiners and Darcy witnessed the entry to the parish register recording the performance of the ceremony.

With this final formality accomplished, the newlyweds led the wedding party into the brilliant August sunshine; once outside the church, the Gardiners immediately came up to the young couple to add their congratulations to those of Dr. Beddowes. Darcy allowed the family group a few minutes of private conversation before approaching them; removing his hat, he bowed to Lydia.

"Mrs. Wickham, may I wish you joy? You and Mr. Wickham will always have my very best wishes for your future health and happiness. Mr. Wickham, my compliments; you have acquired a most lovely bride this morning. I wish you joy, as well, Sir." The two men bowed to each other, but Darcy could not bring himself to offer Wickham his hand, and Wickham did not appear to expect it. Instead, the bridegroom smiled ingratiatingly and responded as form demanded.

"On behalf of Mrs. Wickham and myself, I thank you, Mr. Darcy. Naturally, I am exceedingly gratified that my oldest friend has found it possible to attend my wedding. If I may say so, you have been a witness to my securing what has already proven to be the source of my greatest happiness." Pausing here, he bestowed a warm smile on Lydia, who, it soon became apparent, could no longer contain her excitement and triumph.

"Oh, Mr. Darcy, I am so happy! I was afraid something might happen to put it off, and after I had waited simply forever until everything was arranged. And now it is all finished in less than an hour, and we are married til death us do part! Is it not wonderful?" Scarcely pausing to recover breath, she went on in the much same manner.

"Oh, I long to be at Longbourn so that I may tell them all about it! How my sisters will envy me! I, the youngest of the Bennet girls, am the first to wed. And I shall show them my ring whenever they may ask to see it--for, of course, they will want to see it very often."

Darcy was somewhat at a loss how to respond to these exclamations or, indeed, to decide which of them required an answer from him. Consequently, he was relieved when Lydia concluded by excusing herself to rejoin her new husband, who was conversing with Mr. Gardiner a few yards off.

At this point, Mrs. Gardiner walked up and placed herself by his side. They stood together silently for a few moments watching the others before she turned and spoke to him in a low tone.

"Mr. Darcy, my husband has requested me to extend an invitation to you to dine with us tomorrow evening, if you are not engaged. I told him that I would be delighted to comply with his wish in this. We would both enjoy your company very much, and I hope that you are at liberty to accept."

"Madam, you honour me. I am free tomorrow evening, and I cannot imagine anything that would give me greater pleasure than to dine with you and your family. I thank you both for the consideration you have shown me by thinking of it."

"I fear that the honour is all on our side, Sir. When I reflect on the trouble and expense you have borne to bring about our niece's wedding, and the delicacy and circumspection you have unfailingly displayed in surmounting every difficulty…."

"Madam, please! I beg that you spare me from these flattering observations! You and your husband are too kind. As I have explained to you both, my motives in undertaking everything that I have attempted in the past several weeks were entirely selfish. I am gratified that you feel I have been of some service to your family. Yet, having learnt of the injury your family had suffered, and being convinced that it was the consequence of my own mistaken pride, I could not, in conscience, have allowed myself to do less--unsatisfactory as I fear the passage of time will prove the result. I assure you that I sincerely desired a far different outcome to this affair than the one which we both witnessed this morning. I commenced my efforts in the belief that such an outcome might be achieved. I deeply regret that events have demonstrated that my hopes were too sanguine. As matters stand, I suspect that your family may soon come to regard my interference with considerably less charity than you do at present."

"Then our family would deserve to be thought of by the whole kingdom as the most ungrateful persons in the world. If you have not succeeded in achieving everything that your generosity deserved, I am satisfied that this was entirely owing to the imprudence and obstinacy of my niece. Even before this disgraceful incident, I had long believed that her parents' faulty indulgence of her headstrong nature, and the lack of any perceptible system in her upbringing and education, could not fail to produce the most deplorable results. I hasten to add that I take no consolation from this evidence of my own prescience. Despite her shortcomings, I love my niece, and have no wish to see her unhappy--even if her own folly were the cause of it. Yet, from what I know of him--of them both--I fear it will be so."

"Would that I had acknowledged your right to partake of my information sooner, Madam! Indeed, it was precisely this dereliction which was the origin and cause of my responsibility for what has transpired. I cannot cease blaming myself for my lack of consideration towards you all."

"Fie, Mr. Darcy! You must not go on so, Sir, or I shall soon grow quite cross with you! Surely you cannot claim to have foreseen any of this, any more than did my own niece, Elizabeth--and she had the advantage of you in having lived together with her sister from Lydia's birth. When Elizabeth shared her information concerning Mr. Wickham's true character with us during our return journey to Longbourn, we were both exceedingly shocked and concerned, as you may imagine. Nevertheless, her surprise at what had happened was hardly less than our own.

My niece then told us that she had acquired her intelligence regarding Mr. Wickham whilst she was in Kent last spring visiting Charlotte Collins, and I think I might hazard a guess regarding the name of the person who was responsible for opening her eyes. Thus, Elizabeth was armed with the fullest appreciation of Lydia's character--which you could not have acquired during your brief acquaintance with her sister--together with a much truer knowledge of Mr. Wickham's nature and history. She had known all of this for some months. Despite this, I have no doubt whatever that the news of Lydia's elopement took her completely unawares, as I said a moment ago. At first, she accused herself of a lack of penetration for her failure to recognise what was going forward between her sister and Mr. Wickham, and also with a mistaken caution in neglecting to inform others concerning what she knew of him. It distressed me to behold her in such a frame of mind, but she soon came to a more just and reasonable view, and granted herself pardon."

"To which she is unquestionably entitled. My conduct, however, was inexcusable. Had I acted in conformity with the principles I had been taught, and as my obligations to others commanded I should act, I should not be oppressed with these regrets. Instead, I allowed myself the indulgence of a prideful reticence, and compounded my fault by burdening others with my unjust demands for a similar reserve from them. But perhaps your niece failed to inform you that I had bound her to secrecy regarding some of my disclosures to her. She was not at liberty to protect her sister."

"Mr. Darcy, I have every confidence in the honour, discretion and good sense of my niece. But I also know her well enough to state with great assurance that she is eminently capable of balancing the requirements of these three attributes, and to choose among them as necessity demands. Had she perceived any danger to her sister from Mr. Wickham's attentions, do you seriously suppose that any promise to you respecting her secrecy would have prevented her from acting to forestall his designs?"

Mr. Darcy smiled somewhat ruefully. "I seem to recall making a very similar remark to Mrs. Wickham some weeks ago, Mrs. Gardiner. I thank you for reminding me of it."

"Very well, then. I am glad that we are of one mind on this point. Under the circumstances I have related to you, if my niece does not blame herself for what has occurred, she can scarcely blame you. Furthermore, I know that she does not; she would not have spoken as she did during our journey to Longbourn had she felt that she had any cause to censure either your actions or your motives. Nor is this to be wondered at. After experiencing the kindness and civility of your attentions to us during our visits to Pemberley, Elizabeth could not believe you undeserving of her regard. Her character has too much justice to permit her to fall into so gross an error. On the contrary, I am convinced that she regards you with the utmost esteem--as, if I may say so, do I."

What was this?! Elizabeth does not blame me? She does not despise me? Can this be true? And, if it should be so? The arresting implications of Mrs. Gardiner's disclosure momentarily stunned him. Then, in an instant, the delicious possibilities began to flash through Darcy's brain, and his thoughts were in turmoil. He struggled to maintain his composure, but he was sure that his expression betrayed something of his surprise and delight. Only when he had recovered himself sufficiently to notice Mrs. Gardiner looking at him with obvious puzzlement did he realise that he had been standing for some moments staring at her in silence. He succeeded in reining in his chaotic thoughts sufficiently to attempt an appropriate response.

"Excuse me. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gardiner. I…I shall always strive to act in such a manner as to deserve it, Madam."

"Mr. Darcy, are you unwell?"

"No, I am well, I thank you, Mrs. Gardiner. Although perhaps the sun…I…my mind must have wandered for a moment. I beg your pardon, again. I am quite well now, I assure you."

Mrs. Gardiner seemed about to say something more, but was prevented by Lydia, who cried out that she and "dear Wickham" would have to be off in a moment. Darcy accompanied Mrs. Gardiner as she walked over to stand next to Mr. Gardiner, and all three then bid farewell to the bride and groom, calling after them their wishes for a good journey. They were gone from sight in less than a minute, their carriage quickly swallowed in the anonymity of London. Darcy wondered if he would see either of them again; he certainly did not relish the thought, but where Mr. Wickham was concerned, he had learnt that anything was possible--save virtue.

Still gazing into the distance, Mr. Gardiner spoke to Darcy in a low voice.

"Will they keep silent, do you think? Can we trust their promises?"

"Mr. Wickham will say nothing. He will not want the Bennet family to know anything more of his conduct than they do already, nor how much I have done for him. It would reveal too much of the falsehood he has practiced on them. Mr. Wickham's deceptions are his children; he grieves to see any of them sicken and die, and will prevent this if he can. As for Mrs. Wickham, I know not how to answer for her. Despite everything that has happened, I feel I hardly know her. Mr. Wickham's influence may prove sufficient to insure her secrecy, although I must confess to some disquiet on that point. Still, we have done all we could; it is out of our hands now."

"Yes, you are right. We have done all we could…. Well, Mr. Darcy, it only remains for me to express my thanks to you once more, and bid you a very good day. My wife has just told me that you will be dining with us tomorrow. I am very pleased to hear it; I look forward to conversing with you under far more pleasant circumstances than heretofore."

"And if the conversation should happen to touch upon the subject of fishing, I dare say you would not object, eh?"

Mr. Gardiner laughed for the first time that day. "Ah, the beautiful Pember! What a delightful little stream it is! And to think, it was only a few weeks ago…." He sighed. "Well, I fear I must be getting back to Gracechurch Street. Monday, even such a Monday as this has been, is still a day for business. I bid you good day again, Mr. Darcy."

"Good day, Mr. Gardiner. Good day, Mrs. Gardiner."

"Good day, Mr. Darcy. We will dine at six, if that is convenient?"

"I am at your disposal, Madam. Six o'clock will suit me admirably."

The Gardiners' carriage drew up; Mr. Gardiner helped his wife in, and then climbed in after her. Darcy watched them disappear to the eastward, and then walked a few yards to where his own barouche stood waiting.

As his carriage proceeded westward along the Strand, Darcy was occupied by much happier reflections than for some weeks. If Elizabeth does not blame me…I might still have some hope, after all. It would not do to build too greatly on Mrs. Gardiner's information, at least until I have had an opportunity to see her at Longbourn again. I must see her again!

I will talk to Bingley, and attempt to persuade him that we should both go down to Netherfield again this autumn. That should not prove too difficult! I saw how anxious Charles was to engage Miss Bennet in conversation while she was at Lambton, and I can guess what he wished to speak to her about, as well! If Elizabeth is correct concerning her sister's sentiments…how could I have been so mistaken? Of course, she must be right! How could I doubt her in this when I know how much she and Jane are in each other's confidence? Once I have assured myself that Charles still feels the same affection for Jane Bennet, I will admit everything to him, and ask for his forgiveness. Incredible, insufferable presumption on my part! Yes, all this must be arranged very soon--no, immediately!

And while I am at Netherfield, I shall accompany Charles to Longbourn as often as possible. I will observe her carefully; I will try to gain the opportunity of speaking with her. Do I have any hope of gaining more than her esteem? Might I one day win her affection--her love? An hour ago, I would have been grateful for her esteem, and now…now I know it would be agony to have only her esteem. She must not learn what I have done for her sister; I want her love, not her gratitude. She must love me for the man I am; I could not bear it if I thought she felt only an obligation to me!

When I saw her at Pemberley--when our eyes met in the music room--dear God, it was like an angel had seen into my very soul! I would have sworn I heard her voice whispering to me. I could feel her touching me with such tenderness--softly, delicately--but at the same time with complete assurance, as if she knew me, knew what I was feeling, thinking. She must look at me that way again--she must! Could I have been mistaken in thinking that she was beginning to care for me? No! No! I will not believe it unless I am forced to--I will earn her love, no matter how long it may take! And then I shall offer her my heart with humility: I will tell her how much she means to me, how I need her and want her, and only then will I entreat her to be my wife.

With this resolve fresh in his mind, Darcy suspended his pleasurable imaginings of the future, and noticed that his carriage had almost reached Charing Cross. He called out to his coachman, instructing him to pull up at St. James' Park. Reaching his destination, he got out and addressed the driver.

"You may return home with the carriage, O'Malley. It is such a lovely day that I think I shall walk through the Park."

"Yessir, Mr. Darcy."

Watching Mr. Darcy enter the park, his driver experienced some perplexity. O'Malley had noted the bright tone of Darcy's voice, the glimmer in his eye, and, most unusual and mysterious of all, the broad smile which lit his face as the master had issued his orders.

Now, as he observed his employer in the distance, he witnessed still another strange departure from Darcy's normal behaviour. His master had paused upon encountering a small lad of perhaps seven or eight years of age, and was presently occupied in instructing this individual--accompanied by several practical demonstrations--in the proper method of feeding the ducks.

Which, the carriage driver thought, just went to show that what his own mother had always told him was the simple truth of it: the gentry were a breed apart, and it was therefore useless to concern yourself with their odd moods. Still, being of an inquiring turn of mind, he sought the opinion of his equine charges.

"Well now, what d'ye make 'o that, eh? Gloomy as a Presbyterian preacher one minute, and grinnin' from ear to ear the next."

Receiving no elucidation from this quarter, however, he was reduced to a reliance on his own intellectual resources. He therefore concentrated his mind on accounting for the unexpected change in Mr. Darcy's mood since the morning, and soon satisfied himself that he had arrived at the obvious explanation.

"Well, 'o course! Should'a tought of it straight off! Just been to a weddin', ain't 'e? Ah, weddins is hopeful tings. Nuttin' like a weddin' to cheer up folk!"

And so, reassured by a discovery which proved that the gentry were not so eccentric as is generally supposed, James Patrick Francis O'Malley drove home to his dinner.

The End.