Page 16 of Near Pemberley

Nor could he bear, without self-reproach, the sight of his friend’s friendly face, which trusted him implicitly. He had done his friend the worst of favours, and he did not know what to do about it, if anything could still be done.

There had been a time when he considered that affection imprudent. Now he remembered, with increasing discomfort, the confidence with which he had once presumed to govern what was never his to decide.

So, he travelled alone.

The journey north, undertaken at a pace slower than was usual for him, afforded too much leisure for reflection. There were long stretches of road during which he barely observed where he was, so entirely was his mind occupied by the recollection of Hunsford. More than once, he became aware only after some delay that the horses had been changed or another posting-house left behind.

At one posting-house, the landlord attempted to engage in conversation regarding the condition of the roads ahead. Darcy answered once, then again, without having properly heard the question.

The man repeated himself with visible patience.

Darcy apologised and forced himself to attend. The exchange lasted scarcely a minute, yet he found himself remembering it afterwards with a degree of embarrassment. His thoughts had become so fixed upon one subject that ordinary civility itself required effort.

Her words returned to him continually.

Their bitterness wounded him deeply; yet it was their justice that returned to him most persistently.

He heard again her accusation of ungentlemanlike behaviour; heard the indignation with which she spoke of Bingley and Jane; heard, most painfully of all, her astonishment that he could have conducted himself as he had and yet expected gratitude in return.

At first, he had defended himself instinctively. He had acted, he believed, from concern for his friend. He had distrusted the warmth of Miss Bennet’s attachment, and he had wished to spare Bingley an imprudent connection.

But even while his pride argued thus, another part of his mind – quieter, steadier, and far less indulgent – had already begun to question him.

Why had he thought himself entitled to decide the matter at all?

Why had he trusted his own judgement so completely and dismissed the feelings of others with such certainty?

The more honestly he considered it, the less satisfaction he found in his former reasoning.

And there were other recollections still more difficult to defend.

He remembered occasions – countless occasions – on which he had withdrawn from society not from modesty, nor reserve, but from disdain. He had persuaded himself that because he found much of fashionable company foolish, insincere, or tiresome, he was justified in making no effort toward civility beyond what strict propriety required.

Miss Elizabeth had seen through that justification at once.

He began, gradually and unwillingly, to perceive that in his determination not to resemble those shallow men who sought admiration through charm and fashionable manners, he had erred in the opposite direction. He had despised affectation so completely that he had almost come to value incivility as honesty.

What he had long called discernment might, in many instances, have been little better than arrogance.

And his reserve – which he had always considered merely prudent – could not have appeared otherwise than contempt to those who did not know him better.

And what he had once excused in himself might often have appeared little better than disregard for the comfort of others.

The discovery humbled him more than he could easily bear, for he had always considered himself honourable. Yet honour, he now understood, consisted not merely in acting correctly where duty was clear, but in conducting oneself with generosity, consideration, and humanity even in the lesser intercourse of daily life.

Elizabeth Bennet had judged him deficient in all three. The recollection was not one he could now dismiss as entirely unjust. By the time he approached Pemberley, his mind, though still unhappy, had settled into a resolution more serious than any he had previously formed.

He would not remain the man she had condemned. Whether he should ever see her again or not – whether she thought better of him or continued to despise him – he could not wholly determine. But he could at least govern himself better. He could acknowledge his faults more readily in solitude than he suspected he should in company.

It was much easier to recognise faults than correct them.

If he had been proud, he would endeavour to become humbler. If he had been inattentive, he would become more considerate. And if he had once imagined civility beneath him, he would prove himself worthy of respect by learning at last to practise it sincerely.

If his reserve had given offence, he would endeavour to correct it. If he had appeared careless of others, he would endeavour to become more deserving of their good opinion – not from vanity, nor from any restless desire to please, but because he had begun at last to understand that civility required more of a man than he had once believed.

And perhaps too – though he seldom allowed himself to dwell long upon the thought – because he could not entirely relinquish the hope that, should Elizabeth Bennet ever hear his name again, she might hear it less unfavourably than before.

It was with these thoughts still occupying him that he arrived at Pemberley. His reception there was what it had always been. Everything was in order; nothing had been neglected. The house was prepared, the grounds attended, the servants respectful and attentive. Nothing had changed, yet the place no longer appeared quite the same to him.