Old friends and new fancies

by Sybil G. Brinton

"No, certainly not," returned Mrs. Grant; "she blames herself, as I have said; but she regrets also that Mrs. Darcy took so many pains to induce Lady Catherine to show us any civility. Lady Catherine disliked us, and when the opportunity of showing her real feelings arrived, she was glad to take full advantage of it."

"Mrs. Grant, believe me, it is not as you think," said Fitzwilliam earnestly. "My aunt is just now entirely in the hands of some evil-natured and unscrupulous persons, who can make her act in any way they choose."

"It may be so; I try to think so; but it does not excuse her conduct," returned Mrs. Grant.

Fitzwilliam took two or three turns about the room, wrapped in thought. At length he approached Mrs. Grant, and in tones which scarcely concealed his emotion, said: "Forgive me, but I cannot take what you say as final. It is, of course, for you and your sister to decide, but I cannot think that you mean to cast us off, myself and my cousins, on account of this thing which has happened, a thing which you know we deplore as much as we condemn. May I not hope to be allowed to call upon your sister, if only for a few minutes? not to-day, I know, but to-morrow, or the next day? Mrs. Grant, I have no right to say anything; but I think you can guess what it means to me."

Mrs. Grant's countenance softened, and she spoke more kindly than she had done during the interview. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Colonel Fitzwilliam; but, frankly, my sister would not see you just now, and it would do no good to anyone if you did see her. Her feelings have been deeply wounded—more deeply, probably, than you have any idea of. It would be far better for you not to think of it any more. You are shortly quitting Bath; we, too, shall be leaving for the summer; and at some future time we may, possibly, meet again, and be able then to gather up the threads of our friendship."

Fitzwilliam had turned very pale; for though partly prepared for the blow, he had hoped for some mitigating circumstances, and Mrs. Grant's words conveyed to him at that moment nothing but a counsel of despair. He could not immediately reply, but mastering himself with an effort, he said, steadily: "I only care for your sister's happiness, and whatever she wishes shall be done"; then bowed and quickly left the room.

Mrs. Grant, left alone, reflected with an aching heart upon the scene that had just closed. Resentful though she felt both on Mary's account and her own, yet she had been a very unwilling bearer of the message which she had delivered to her visitor. She had liked him, she liked him still; she had observed with keen pleasure the growing mutual attraction between himself and Mary, for she considered him almost worthy of that beloved sister. The event of the night before had not shaken that belief; whoever was to blame for it, she knew it was not Lady Catherine's nephew; and when she had partly recovered from her agitation she had tried to persuade Mary to do him equal justice, knowing well that he would not let the matter rest and that they would hear from him again. But Mary had been unpersuadable. The shock had been very great, not only from the incredible insult, but from the sight of the buried past, risen up again to be an undying reproach to her. All that she most bitterly regretted, of her own acts and of other persons', all that she most wished to forget, had been revived in her mind, exactly at a time when she had allowed herself to think that a new prospect of happiness might be opening up before her, in the midst of a set of people and circumstances with which the past should be wholly unconnected. But now the painful memories had intruded into the present, and, thrust upon her in a peculiarly galling manner, threatened to mar and taint the new life. Mary's mind was in a state of too great distress and tumult for her to see that their power of doing so lay in her own hands, that she only could let herself fall back into that wretched, listless, discontented condition from which she had so lately emerged; she only knew that the old influences had returned, and she was bitterly angry at the knowledge. In response to her sister's pleading she replied that she was determined not to see any of them again, they were all alike, proud and hard-hearted; they patronized her, they made her do things she did not want to do, and she wished she had never met one of them. Mrs. Grant ventured to speak a word on Colonel Fitzwilliam's behalf, but Mary, sore at heart and suffering the more for knowing she was unjust, replied that Colonel Fitzwilliam meant well, but really he ought to keep his most terrible old aunt in better order. She would not confess even to herself, far less to her sister, how much she had learned to care for the man whom she was now sending away—through wounded pride, perversity, anger ... she could hardly have told for what reason.

Mrs. Grant could only endeavour to soothe and sympathize. She saw it was better not to continue the discussion of the subject, and looked forward to the lapse of time, and a change of scene and companionship, to restore to Mary some measure of comfort and serenity.

Of these blessings Colonel Fitzwilliam was in even greater need. He walked back to the hotel in an agony of mind such as he had never before in his life experienced. To the pain of his disappointment was added hopelessness, for he felt that the cause of his repulse lay beyond his power to remove. She was too deeply offended to see him, or to hear what he had to say, and as she would not do these things he thought she could not possibly care for him. And now, completely cut off from her, he had no chance of ever winning his way. His anger against his aunt remained unabated; but even were she persuaded to make all the reparation in her power, he had been told that it would be unavailing; there was nothing more that anyone could do.

He called his servant, and gave him directions for leaving Bath early on the following day, then made a pretence of dining, and threw himself into his chair for an evening of sad and solitary reflection. It was nearly half-past nine when a card was brought up to him, and it was with a start of surprise that he recollected he had been promised a visit from Mr. Yates.