Old Mr. Darcy was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner had all signed the register of his burial. His son signed it. And Fitzwilliam Darcy’s name was as good as his father’s before him. Old Mr. Darcy was as dead as a doornail. Darcy was dreadfully cut up by the sad event.

There is no doubt that Old Mr. Darcy was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of this story.

Darcy was often proud and conceited, arrogant and disdainful to those whom he did not know. Friends, on the other hand, might stop him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Darcy, how are you? When will you come to see me?” Children and dogs often seemed able to see beneath his exterior to the real Darcy. Yet many never saw in him that which did not appear on the surface.

Darcy’s soul and heart had sustained an injury in the spring from one who had yet to see beyond his outward façade. Elizabeth Bennet had refused his proposal of marriage—refused it in a manner that seemed as hard and sharp as flint.

“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

Darcy could now admit that his offer, sincere as it was, had been given in an abominable manner, and he winced at the still vibrant memory. But her harsh words had not struck out the fire of his love. He had tried to conquer his feelings but he could not. Hope had bloomed anew for a few sunlit days last summer, when he had unexpectedly run into Elizabeth at Pemberley. She had seemed more inclined to think well of him than she ever had before. A few halcyon days had been all that had been allowed before news of Lydia Bennet’s fall from grace had separated them yet again.