Old friends and new fancies

by Sybil G. Brinton

"That is it," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. "I was exhausted, and seeing this empty chair, I forthwith occupied it. Besides, I want to hear the harp solo in peace and quiet. I have not heard the harp played for years, and I am exceedingly fond of it."

"That is the next one, I see. Hush, now! I know this man is going to sing out of tune. He looks like it."

"We ought to have some compensation for listening to that," murmured Darcy, when the song was done. "I believe Mr. Collins would have given us a better performance."

"He certainly is rather like Mr. Collins," remarked Elizabeth reflectively. "Here comes the harp—and what a lovely girl! Is her name on the programme? Yes, Miss Crawford."

Mary Crawford, who since Dr. Grant's death had entirely lived with her sister, Mrs. Grant, at Bath, had lost none of the beauty and charm which had captivated the heart of Edmund Bertram: indeed, the four years which had elapsed since then had given her form and air more regal elegance. The knowledge of sorrow, and regret that she had so much to injure her own chances of happiness, had softened her nature, and now, more gentle, womanly and sympathetic, she was in many ways a different creature from the brilliant Miss Crawford of former days. Mrs. Grant, while loving her devotedly and rejoicing in her companionship, still grieved in secret that no suitor worthy of her dear Mary should ever have succeeded Edmund Bertram, and that no second attachment should have taken place of one which, though renounced without bitterness, had nevertheless left a deep mark upon her sister's character. In Bath their lives were full of interest, and they made many friends; but Mary always laughed at her sister's plans for her marrying, and returned the same kind of answer. "I expect so much, you know, and the chosen he must expect so little, that I doubt whether we should ever come to terms."

Her sister would protest against this, knowing well the real worth of the disposition which Mary hid under a careless and sometimes cold manner; but she also knew that Mary would be more difficult to satisfy, both as regards her own qualities and those of her possible husband, in consequence of the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield. This evening, Miss Crawford, who had consented to perform solely on account of the charitable object of the concert, was out of humour with herself and all the world. Her sister being unwell, she had been obliged to accept an escort to the concert, the company of Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whom, as residents in Bath, she had known since the time of her sister's settling there. Miss Crawford's beauty of face and figure were exactly what would recommend Sir Walter; and while condemning her sister as dull and unfashionable, nothing delighted him more than to be seen in public as squire of the charming and elegant Miss Crawford. Six months' acquaintance had caused her, on her side, thoroughly to weary of him, and on the few occasions when she could not avoid a meeting she endeavoured to converse with his eldest daughter, whom she found only a degree less tiresome and empty-headed. To-night, however, there was no help for it. With them she had come, with them she must remain, unluckily placed at a distance from any of her other Bath friends, her enjoyment of the music spoiled by her companions' irrelevant chatter, her only pleasure to acquit herself creditably in the piece she had chosen to play. This, at all events, was in her power, she felt, as she ascended the platform and shook off sensations of listlessness and ennui; and she succeeded so well that the audience were roused to a display of their delight and enthusiasm, and she had to return twice to acknowledge their plaudits. Next moment she perceived, or thought she perceived, that owing to an increased crowd in the lower part of the room she could not easily get back to her seat without making a little disturbance; so she slipped into a chair in the front row, which was allotted to the performers, thankful even for a short respite.

When the interval came, she remained where she was, and, a few minutes later, seeing the gentleman who had been the chief promoter of the concert trying to attract her attention, she rose unwillingly, supposing that Sir Walter Elliot had come to claim her. What was her surprise to hear Mr. Durand say: "Lady Catherine de Bourgh particularly wishes to know you. May I present you to her?"

Mary felt that she had not had much choice in the matter, but she found herself curtseying to a tall and formidable-looking elderly lady, dressed in rich brocades, who surveyed her as if from a great height, and said: "Allow me to tell you, Miss Crawford, how much pleased I was with your late performance on the harp. I have heard every harp player of note in Europe during the last forty years, and I may say I consider you quite equal to those of the second rank. Though not a performer myself, I am quite acquainted with the difficulties of the instrument."

Mary hardly knew whether to be more vexed or amused at this extraordinary address, and might have been inclined towards the former, had not Mrs. Darcy, who had seen the beginning of the incident, and hastened forward lest her aunt's insolent patronage should offend, interposed with a kindly: "We have all been enjoying your piece so much. It must be delightful to be able to play like that. My aunt is such a lover of music that she cannot hide her enthusiasm."

"And why should I hide it, may I ask?" demanded Lady Catherine. "My judgment has often been of great service to young amateurs, among whom you might include yourself, Elizabeth."