Two days later he was sent word that Matthew Walker had died of an infection of the blood. There were rules about that sort of thing, so he rode to see the man's mother in her hovel.

Her neighbours were standing around outside silent and watchful, while inside the woman wailed her grief. There was little enough he could do, but what there was he did. He spoke to her brother, ignoring the man's own rage, twelve children she had borne and this had been her last. He undertook to pay her a small yearly sum by way of pension; Walker had been promised a job and would probably have helped his mother out as she grew older. Then he spoke to the Rector about the funeral and the grave - he'd known too many poor families beggar themselves to pay for a 'proper' funeral. When he left the rectory, he could still hear her howling like a dog as they laid him out.

Bingley came to meet him in the town and together they rode back towards Netherfield. His hands were sweating inside his gloves and he felt presumptuous and useless.

Then, as they passed through the market place he saw her. Surrounded by her sisters and accompanied by some sweating oaf in a shovel hat, conversing with a group of militia officers - and there He was, swaggering in his regimentals, his little tin sword by his side. Wickham, hat in hand, all smiling loathsomeness, talking to Elizabeth.

Suddenly, it was there, the anger he need no longer restrain, boiling through him, body and soul. He saw the man begin to form his usual, defiant smirk and was off his horse and amidst them before he knew what he was doing. The smirk vanished, Wickham backed away, his eyes wide with alarm, his hands coming up in front of him.

Someone said, "Mr Darcy!" as, with a single blow, he back-handed the swine off his feet and into the gutter. There were voices in the background but they sounded distant and he ignored them. He bent down, lifted the man to his feet and pinned him, effortlessly against the nearest wall. "I've been looking for you, Wickham," he said and he did not even recognise his own voice.

Bingley grabbed his arm. "Darcy," he said, urgently."Are you challenging the man?"

He laughed without amusement and his eyes never left Wickham's suddenly pallid face. "Don't be ridiculous. Duelling is for gentlemen. His sort are horse-whipped." Someone was plucking at his arm, one of the officers, and he shook the puppy free. "You are going to run, Wickham, you are going to run hard and far. I paid your debts, in Derbyshire and Cambridge - how long do you think it will take me to get a Tipstaff here? And once you are in The Fleet, I'll make sure you rot there. So, desertion or a debtors' prison - the choice is yours."

He dropped Wickham, like so much filth and turned to the crowd which had gathered. He raised his voice. "Do not lend this man money and do not game with him; he recognises neither debts nor debts of honour. Do not leave your wives, your daughters or your female servants around him; he has neither honour nor scruples."

Nobody spoke. They could hear the noise of the two fine horses stamping their feet and snorting in the silence. He turned to Elizabeth and her companions and raised his hat. "Ladies, please allow Bingley and myself to escort you home. It seems the streets here are not safe for gentlewomen." They curtsied, shocked into silence, and prepared to leave with him.

Behind them, the shopkeeper beside whose wall this had all occurred, called out in consternation. "Sir! Sir! He owes me money! What should I do?"

Darcy turned. "How much?"

"One pound, fourteen and six."

Darcy threw him some coins. "Pass the word. That was the last debt of Wickham's I shall ever pay." He strode off and the rest of the company had to run to keep up. His face was white and set and they were all, including the gentlemen, more than a little afraid of him.

Eventually, it was Elizabeth who dared to say. "Sir, we cannot keep up with you."

He looked down at her, and it seemed to them all that he awoke from some unpleasant dream. He stopped dead, blinking. He passed a hand over his face and tried to speak. "My apologies, Miss Elizabeth. I...." He swallowed hard. "You....."

Bingley took over smoothly. "What my friend means is that, now we have left the town, there is no longer quite the same need to hurry." They continued at a more moderate pace. Darcy was shivering now and looked ill. Even Lydia and Kitty were silent for the whole journey and ran into the house as soon as it was in sight.

The fat little man looked desperate to follow them and, after hovering beside the rest of the party for a few minutes, muttered something about escorting his young cousins and ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.

Elizabeth and Jane were scarcely less shocked than their sisters but, having met the two remaining gentlemen more often and under happier circumstances, were perhaps less afraid. "You must come into the house, Mr Darcy," said Elizabeth. "I fear you are unwell."

He shook his head and she realised that, for the first time in their acquaintance, he could not look her in the eye. "I must beg you pardon, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth for that most ungentlemanly display. I have never, I should never.... Please, apologise for me to the other ladies. It was unforgivable - assure your father that I will call upon him as soon as possible to explain myself. "

They tried to reassure him but were unsure whether or not he had understood. Eventually were obliged to go indoors.

Elizabeth ran upstairs to her mother's chamber which over-looked the front of the house. Lydia and Kitty were already regaling her with the details as best they could amidst her noisy flutterings and exclamations. Elizabeth ignored her mother to run to the window.

From this vantage point, she could see over the walls to the road beyond. The two gentlemen had not mounted their horses, indeed Mr Darcy was sitting on a milestone at the edge of the road with his head in his hands. Mr Bingley stood beside him, bending low to talk. She watched, in an agony of indecision, wondering whether to offer her assistance or whether that would merely increase his evident humiliation.

After a few minutes, however, Mr Darcy took his friend's arm and levered himself to his feet. He stood for a few minutes, his head bent, leaning on Mr Bingley until that gentleman clasped his hands and threw his friend up into his saddle. He then mounted himself, using the milestone, and together they cantered off in the direction of Netherfield.