Jane Austin - Pride and Prejudice

in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously

closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but

he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives

for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with

either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What

could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his

meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand

him?

“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be

severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to

ask nothing about it.”

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy

in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation

of his two motives.

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,

as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this

method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s

confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you

are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage

in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and

if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the

fire.”

“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so

abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said

Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease

him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to

be done.”

“But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy

has not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and

presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to

laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by

attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug

himself.”

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an

uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it

would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I

dearly love a laugh.”

“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.

The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their

actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object

in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope

I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and

good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_

divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,

I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the

study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a

strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride.”

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a

real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good

regulation.”

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss

Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He

owns it himself without disguise.”

“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults

enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I

dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little

yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I

cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought,

nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed

about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be

called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”

“_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable

resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your

fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some

particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best

education can overcome.”

“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”

“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to

misunderstand them.”

“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a

conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not

mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”

Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was

opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not

sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too

much attention.

“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at

breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner

to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family

party.”

“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am

sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope

_my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often

sees such at home.”

“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is

Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad

to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a

bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I

must speak to Hill this moment.”

“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom

I never saw in the whole course of my life.”

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of

being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at

once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus

explained:

“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight

ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and

requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,

who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon

as he pleases.”

“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that

mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is

the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be

entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had

been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other

about it.”

Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an

entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a

subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and

she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an

estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man

whom nobody cared anything about.

“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and

nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting

Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps

be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very

impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.

I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling

with you, as his father did before him?”

“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on