However, Mary was not to be persuaded. She told her aunt she was determined to see for herself the noble sights which the walk promised to deliver. But she would have divulged to no-one the other reason why she would not be deterred from making the climb. There could be no doubt now that Mr. Hayward’s manner towards her had changed. He was never less than polite and gave no hint of any anger or resentment towards her. He was affable enough—but he was not the same. He no longer sought her out, as he had been accustomed to do, choosing the chair nearest her own, standing next to her at every opportunity. They rarely spoke in private now and laughed together even less. He no longer glanced up to catch her eye across the table when something was said he knew would amuse her. Slowly but surely, he had pulled away from her. Even when he was near her, he was distant.
When she was alone, Mary ran again and again over every possible explanation for his behaviour. None satisfied her. She knew him to be neither cruel nor deceitful. She did not believe him capable of acting unkindly without some cause. If she herself had played some part in his change of heart, she could not imagine what it was. Perhaps she simply imagined that he cared for her? Whilst she had longed for him to declare himself, perhaps the truth had been that her feelings were stronger than his—and now he was attempting to divest himself, with as much tact as possible, from a situation that had become embarrassing to him. Tears pricked her eyes as she considered this. She supposed it was possible. But when she thought of how happy they had been together on their first arrival in the Lakes, how fond and comfortable they were with each other in the boat on Grasmere, how they had laughed about their dismal sketches, how she had teased him about his inability to tell one bird from another—she could not convince herself she had been wrong to think his affection for her was genuine.
When she reached the point where there were no more possibilities to interrogate, she did not know what to do. Staring at night into the black Westmoreland dark, open-eyed when she should have been sleeping, brought no relief. Finally, she decided she would torture herself no more. No. She would act like a rational being and simply ask him why he was behaving in this way.
She knew this was an audacious decision. It presumed on the nature of their acquaintance, which, although she could barely imagine now what life had been like before she met him, had not in fact been of very long duration. Nor was it usual for ladies to question gentlemen about the state of their affections. But she was resolved to do it anyway. Knowledge, she told herself, was always to be preferred to ignorance, even if what was revealed might be painful to hear.
It was impossible, however, to open such a conversation at the inn. The danger of being overheard or interrupted was too great. On Scafell, though, there would be a real chance of speaking to Mr. Hayward alone with no-one to eavesdrop except the rabbits and hawks, and they were too low in the grass or high in the sky to be bothersome. She could not say with any conviction what it was she hoped to discover. She was at a loss. All she knew was that whatever had provoked Mr. Hayward’s withdrawal, it did not look as if it had made him happy; for when she found ways to study him unobserved, which she very often did, he looked as troubled and preoccupied as she felt herself.
On the day of the trip, the morning dawned bright and clear. Soon everything was ready, provisions packed, boots put on, the Guide slipped into pockets. Mrs. Gardiner waved the walkers off, the little party squeezed tightly into the inn’s hired coach. They bumped off down the rutted roads, thankful that it was not long before they arrived at Seathwaite, where they met the guide and began their climb.
The path rose up behind a small row of cottages, then levelled off into a steady incline. The ground was uneven, the grass yellow and tussocky, hiding pools of dark water which seemed designed for no other purpose than to soak the feet of the unwary walker. Mary was soon very grateful for the stout boots Mrs. Gardiner had bought her. The country was open and the sky was a sharp, bright blue with a few tiny white clouds scattered distantly upon it. At first, they walked to the joyful accompaniment of larks singing ecstatically as they rose upwards in the clear air; but as they made their way higher and higher, they left the larks behind, and soon nothing was to be heard but the harsher cries of buzzards wheeling overhead. Mary walked alone, preferring her own company to that of anyone else. Mr. Hayward strode on, a little ahead of her, equally silent, equally alone. So now they were both unhappy, Mary thought, frowning as she watched him. And for what reason? What had soured the pleasure they had taken in each other? What had provoked such an inexplicable change of heart? With every step she took, she grew more determined to discover what had happened.
The guide and his son, a fine boy of twelve or thirteen, led the way, setting a steady pace. Mr. Gardiner walked alongside them, questioning them intently, as was his way, about the country and the game to be found in it. Behind them followed Mr. Ryder, his excitement visible in his every eager gesture. Now and again, he turned back to Mary, keen to share his enthusiasm.
“Could anything be better than this, Miss Bennet? Such skies! Such air!”
His pleasure was so infectious, that, even in her dark mood, Mary found it impossible not to smile mildly back, provoking an affronted glare from Caroline Bingley. She had stationed herself at Mr. Ryder’s side, trotting next to him, Mary thought, exactly like an officious little terrier. She should not have been surprised if the lady had growled at her and bared her teeth.
So distracted was she by Miss Bingley’s hostility that Mr. Hayward’s voice, low, steady, and very near to her, took her completely by surprise, as he fell into step beside her.
“You seem to be managing very well,” he said. “It looks as though you are more than equal to the demands of the climb.”
Her heart beat faster to hear him speak to her in something approaching his old, familiar tone. But she was determined to keep her countenance. If she was to find the courage to question him, she must not lose her nerve.
Yes,” she replied, with an evenness she did not feel, “so far at least. But this is the easiest part. I’m sure there is worse to come.”
They spoke in pleasantries, quite unlike the usual bantering style of their conversation. This was painful to Mary, as it confirmed very strikingly the cooling of their relations. But she refused to allow her distress to deflect her from her purpose. If she could keep Mr. Hayward talking, the opportunity would surely present itself for her to ask him what she was to understand by his behaviour.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hurst do not appear to share your stamina.”
Mary turned to look at the couple, labouring with some effort further down the path.
“I’m sorry for them. It is clearly harder than they expected.”
“I offered her my arm when we forded the stream, but she brushed me away.”
“She obviously possesses in full all the gentle charm of her sister.”
She saw a smile steal briefly across his face, but it was quickly extinguished. It was as though he was doing all he could to resist the pull of their old ease and friendliness. She would speak. She must know the cause of it.
“Mr. Hayward—”
She swallowed hard, determined to begin. But before she could do so, she heard footsteps behind her.
“Excuse me, Tom,” exclaimed Mr. Ryder, “but I have something for Miss Bennet.” He opened his hand to show a pale yellow flower, a little crushed but still recognisable as a primrose.
“Our guide says it is one of the very last of the season. There were two flowers. I gave one to Miss Bingley, but this is for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryder.”
“You could press it and use it as a bookmark. It might cheer up those pages of Miss Burney that you find so dreary.”
With that, he strode back to his place near the head of their little procession.
“Poor primroses,” said Mary, gazing at the crumpled bloom. “What a sad end for such pretty things.” She looked up at Mr. Hayward. “You know, I kept the honeysuckle you gave me. It is in a
glass in my room. It still smells very sweet.”
He seemed not to hear her, absorbed in watching his friend amble back to Miss Bingley.
“Ryder certainly knows how to make a gesture. He will always find a way to draw attention to himself.”
“That seems somewhat harsh. I think he meant it sincerely.”
“I’m sure of it.”
Mary, taken aback by the bleakness of his tone, did not reply.
“He seems to know your tastes in reading pretty well.”
“I had Evelina with me the other morning. He remarked upon it.”
Mr. Hayward looked as though he was about to say more, but seemed to think better of it. He stood for a moment, considering; and then declared abruptly that he must ask the guide to stop soon as he did not think the Hursts could go much further.
As Mary stood watching him walk away, it burst upon her quite suddenly that Mr. Hayward was jealous—jealous of his friend. It was such an extraordinary idea that it took a moment for her to absorb it. At first it seemed preposterous, presumptuous even—who was she, after all, to imagine two men could feel strongly enough about her to arouse such a sensation? From a deep place in her mind, to which she had attempted to banish such dark thoughts, an old familiar whisper resurfaced to insist that only the beautiful inspired such strong emotions—a woman like her was incapable of doing so. But she could think of no other way to account for Mr. Hayward’s behaviour over the last few days. His discomfort had been very marked when he had seen her in Mr. Ryder’s company. His silent withdrawal when he met them walking from the inn—his obvious ill humour just now, so unlike his usual open, frank disposition—what else could it imply but displeasure with what he regarded as his friend’s overtures to her?
She pulled her jacket closer to her as a strong breeze whipped around her, blowing down from the higher ground. She had remained rooted to the spot for too long. She must go on, or she would lose sight of the others—even the Hursts were in front of her now.
As Mary struggled upwards, her thoughts were so disturbed, her feelings so turbulent, that she barely noticed the path. She supposed there was one sense in which she might be encouraged by her discovery. If Mr. Hayward was indeed jealous, it suggested that his feelings for her were not entirely obliterated. If he was truly indifferent, why would he care? But the more she considered it, the more she was surprised to find that this reasoning, however logically sound, brought her neither relief nor gratitude. Instead what she felt was a swelling indignation. What right did Mr. Hayward have to behave in this way? What possible reason did he have to be jealous?
She took several deep breaths, willing herself to be calm as she picked her way carefully through the rough grass. There were large stones everywhere, strewn randomly on the ground; it would be dangerous to trip over one. All her concentration was required to avoid them, and gradually, she felt more in control of herself. Very well then, if that was the accusation, she would examine the evidence. Then she would know if there was truly a case to be answered.
She was compelled to admit that Mr. Ryder’s conduct did suggest some fondness on his part. His calling so regularly at Gracechurch Street implied it, as did his seeking her out so often for conversation. Indeed, the manner in which he spoke to her might be said to confirm it—a teasing familiarity which even she understood arose from interest and affection. Mrs. Gardiner had noticed it, had warned her twice to be wary of Mr. Ryder’s charm; if she had observed it, why should not Mr. Hayward have done the same?
Mary’s first inclination was to run ahead, find Mr. Hayward as quickly as she could, and, throwing discretion to the wind, try to convince him she felt nothing for his friend, that his apprehensions were entirely baseless. But something in her baulked at the idea of it. She had done nothing wrong. She had not invited his friend’s attentions, and she had certainly not returned them.
If they made Mr. Hayward uneasy, why had he not spoken to her and asked if Ryder’s interest was returned? She would have been happy to assure him it was not. But he had not done so. Instead he had turned his face away from her, leaving her confused and unhappy, ignorant of the cause of his retreat. And yet, she was to be the one who sought to make amends? Who was meekly to apologise for an offence she had not committed? Well, she should not do it. If anyone was required to justify their conduct, it should be him.
Anger was an unfamiliar emotion for Mary. In the past, she had not felt entitled to give way to anything so assertive. She had always assumed the blame for any fault, any difficulty, must be hers. Apology had become her habitual response to any form of challenge. But she no longer felt so abject. Her anger had galvanised her, had awoken her pride. Mr. Hayward had done everything possible to suggest he had strong feelings for her, given every indication that encouraged her belief that he cared for her—but nevertheless he had made no declaration. Much as she wished for it, he had not spoken. Yet he had not hesitated to show his displeasure when Mr. Ryder displayed an interest in her. Perhaps he should decide what his true feelings were towards her and express them with honesty and consistency. Then—and not before—he might have some justification for what she was now convinced was, without question, jealousy on his part.
Chapter 79
Mary forced a few escaping strands of hair back into her hat and pushed it down upon her head. The way was harder, but she did not falter. The sun was hot and her legs ached, but she pushed onwards and upwards. Her temper drove her forward and seemed to supply her with reserves of stamina, but for all her angry energy, she was glad when the guide chose to stop for refreshments and a short rest. Catching up with the others at last, she was relieved to sit down upon one of the rugs the guide had spread out for them; and when his son passed amongst them, offering around flasks of weak tea and small beer that were as cold as they were welcome, Mary drank as eagerly as everyone else.
“We have made good time this morning,” observed their guide, “and we’re not far from our destination now. If you look in that direction—yes, ma’am, follow where I point, you cannot mistake it—that is Ashridge, that great grey shelf over there. But the walk gets harder from here, a stiffer climb than we’ve had so far. If any of you don’t feel up to it, this is the time to turn back. My boy will take you down, he knows the way as well as I do myself.”
No-one was much surprised when, after a huddled consultation, the exhausted Hursts volunteered that they had indeed had enough and wished to return. But Mr. Gardiner’s announcement that he intended to join them was most unexpected. The gentlemen tried their best to persuade him not to give up—their object was almost in sight—would he not be sorry to miss it?—but he was adamant.
“I fear I must sacrifice my pride to my aching legs. It pains me to admit it, but this is a climb for those younger and more agile than myself. If I go back now, there is some prospect of my taking a rod out on the lake, an occupation much better suited to a middle-aged man like myself.”
He held up his hand to silence any further protestations.
“If the young ladies are prepared to continue without me—if they are happy to rely upon our estimable guide, and of course the two young men here—then I am decided. I’m sorry to miss the view. But for an angler who won’t see twenty-five again, on this occasion there can be no doubt that the fish have it.”
So it was only four of the original party who followed the guide further up the twisting path, treading more slowly, yet determined to reach their goal. Sometimes, when the route allowed it, they walked alongside each other; more often, they marched in single file, saying little. Everyone was hot and tired. Mary saw that Mr. Hayward had from somewhere acquired a stick, and every so often, beat at the grass with it, or tossed it from hand to hand, gestures that seemed to sum up his restless, uneasy state. Mary steeled herself against the sympathy that leapt immediately into her mind. The remedy lay in his own hands. If he would only speak, all might be resolved. She thought of the slip of paper Mr. Collins had given her, with the line of Aristotle written upon
it. We make our own happiness, it had said; but how, she asked herself, was that to be achieved when there was so little candour in the world, such fear of confessing what one really felt? It pained her to admit it, but perhaps Mr. Ryder was right after all?
Her mind was so absorbed with these thoughts, that when the guide called out to them all, she started up, jolted back into reality.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re very nearly at our destination.” He gestured towards a plateau, a little way ahead. “Ashridge is not ten minutes’ walk, if we step out bravely.”
In no time at all, they were there. As they stood, hands shading their eyes against the sunlight, triumphant on the little patch of ground they had laboured so mightily to reach, they fell silent, absorbing the full glory of their reward. It seemed as though the whole world was unfolded before them, hill after hill undulating away to the distant horizon, one succeeding another, punctuated by the occasional silver flash of a lake. The guide pointed out the principal sights in one direction—there was Keswick, there Borrowdale and Bassenthwaite—before turning to show what lay in another—the mountains of Skiddaw, Helvellyn, and Saddleback. Finally, with the aplomb of a magician revealing his best trick, he gestured towards a line of blue water on the horizon.
“‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the Solway Firth. Beyond lies Scotland.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 43